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I've finally dried the vodka and gin out of my system and moved into the next year of my life. It was marked by shopping and drinking and shopping. Surprisingly, I managed to make it all the way through all that shopping without buying shoes.

I bought a dress, a skirt, sweater, panties, a bra and a satin Betsey Johnson trench with a giant ruffle down the front.

I couldn't pass it up.

Sure, there were shoes. I tried them on, walked around with them, coveted them, and ultimately decided not to get them. I even had a pair of black peep toes in my hand at one point. I really need plain black peep toes. I decided against these though because they had a drag queen height platform on them, which is awesome, but totally not appropriate for the office. And I already have drag queen height black shoes for the days that I need to be almost six feet and walk like a geisha.

It’s my birthday this month. Actually, it’s this week, in the next couple days. You can guess which one.

In hearing that news you’re probably already more excited about it than I am. Not because I’m all bah humbug about being a year older. I don’t actually care about being a year older. Armed with wrinkle creams, cases of makeup, yoga, hair dye, and a great hair stylist I’m not really afraid of age. (And when the time comes I won’t be afraid of Botox either).

I just never really get excited about birthdays. I stopped having birthday parties sometime in high school and never looked back. I don’t take the day off, or declare a whole week or month for myself when I expect to be treated special or given nice things simply because I managed to be born (which really wasn’t up to me) and not get myself killed up to this point.

But the day cannot go totally unrecognized, so the one thing I do every year for myself; shop.

I have a tendecy to become obsessed with the idea of something and then not resting until I get it. Then I find out it's not nearly as fantastic and amazing as I had hoped and it gets totally shelved.

Gray patent leather shoes, red pants, curduroy anything, that gold and black skirt that doesn't actually look good with my gold boots, various earrings and necklaces, and pretty much any dress I've ever bought fall into this category.

Why would cork shoes be any different?

I have blogged about my fascination since first seeing them at Stewart Weitzamn. Then I loved the height of Sam Edelman. I even posted them in the "Shoes I dream about" album on Facebook.

Thanks to DNA Footwear they're down now, and a photo of the real thing is moving over to the "My Shoes" album. And thanks to the fact that they really are as fabulous as I hoped, they're something I'll actually wear on a semi-regular basis.

This weekend I went out to dinner with my husband a friend to catch up, have a few drinks and hang out.

Because I’m incapable of dressing down or bring casual, I was channeling Peg Bundy with a pair of Leopard print capri pants and a black halter top and black sandals.

They’re a classic pair of Nine West sandals with a buckle across the toe, three inch heel and ankle strap. I’ve had them forever, and every so often they get dragged out when I’m going somewhere that involves walking but still calls for a stiletto.

Like a summer dinner in the neighborhood.

As we’re standing outside the restaurant, waiting to be seated, a mother passes by with a little girl in a stroller. She was probably about 2 or 3 years old, and as they approached she stuck her little arm out of the stroller, pointed at my shoes and screamed, “I love your shoes.”

As she got closer she said it again, and again. I laughed, exchanged a look with her mother that acknowledged we both knew she was in for trouble with t…

In what will probably become a long, drawn out court battle, today a judge ruled to deny a preliminary injunction on behalf of Christian Louboutin that would prevent Yves Saint Laurent from selling the red-soled shoes from its 2011 resort collection. (Read it here).

Bummer.

The court did not feel that color is entitled to trademark protection in the fashion industry.

As much as people will bitch and complain about this, I am somewhat inclined to agree. How can someone in the fashion industry name one color that’s just for them? Betsey Johnson is synonymous with pink in my mind, just as Louboutin is red, but she doesn't own it.

And once a designer names that color, is it a specific PMS color? What about the RGB codes? How do you keep the color the same on different materials? Is it all reds, or just one shade, and if it is just one shade, is it one that Christian Louboutin (or his company) mixed himself?

Still, Louboutin is known for the red soles, so it will act as a trademark n…

People are always trying to explain behavior. Men try to understand women, women try to understand men, women try to understand women. Apparently we can only be defined by gender stereotypes, even by our own gender.

Knowing how aggravating this whole concept is to me, my husband sent me an article from Cracked.com, "7 Female Behaviors that Baffle Men (Explained!)." I'm so glad we can clear up all the goofy shit women do in 7 little bullet points. Because thousands of years of living with women, and men still haven't figured out things like why women take long to get ready, why our public bathrooms are gross, and why we smell nice. Did I mention this was written by a woman? I'm not sure where she's hanging out, but most women's restrooms aren't as bad as the men's because at least we don't pee on the floor, accidentally or on purpose. And not all women take long to get ready, and not all women smell nice. She obviously doesn't take public tr…